


Entropy and Feeling

by HomunculusTrashParty



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 03:29:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17317235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomunculusTrashParty/pseuds/HomunculusTrashParty
Summary: Markus composes a song for Carl.





	Entropy and Feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Danny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danny/gifts).



On mornings like this one, Markus liked to play.

Liked wasn’t the right word—it was nothing more than a subroutine, as Markus understood. But something in him felt drawn to the piano on days like today, as though the birds and sunlight needed an auditory greeting. Perhaps they did. As Markus booted himself up from low power mode, mentally going over his checklist for the day, he glanced out of the front window, wondering if he could see the sunrise from here. Carl liked to sleep in, but sometimes Markus thought he’d enjoy a sunrise. He thought about what it must mean to be human, and so tired and old. Carl said once that humans were fragile machines. Markus half-smiled to himself as he turned away from the window and began to idly tidy up the entryway. Nothing about Carl’s personality had ever suggested fragility to him. Physically, sure, there were things he struggled to do unassisted, but his keen artist’s mind fascinated Markus, and inspired curiosity.

It was Carl who had taught him to play the piano, after all—and read and discuss literature, play chess, even paint. Chess was what he was best at—perhaps unsurprisingly, given his programming—but the older man had assured him that his other budding cultural talents were keen as well. He’d said a more painful thing, too: that Markus would someday be without him.

Markus knew he didn’t feel pain, but the thought of Carl being gone caused a slowness in his processes for which he had no rational explanation. He’d done diagnostics, even considered asking Elijah Kamski if there was something wrong with him, but perhaps it was something to simply be accepted. Caring for Carl was his purpose; surely it wasn’t strange to experience some kind of slowdown at the thought of losing his life’s purpose.

Markus climbed the stairs to peek into Carl’s room; he was sound asleep, vital signs normal, with the usual resting heart rate. He’d heard that humans dreamed as they slept. Was Carl dreaming of anything? Art? Music? People?

Him?

Markus left as quietly as he’d entered, then went downstairs to start the day. He had about an hour before Carl’s preferred wakeup time. Breakfast was simple—bacon and eggs took all of fifteen minutes, so he sat down at the piano. Hopefully it wouldn’t wake him, but he’d asked Carl once about it and he’d slept through it all.

Markus’ hands hovered over the piano keys the way Carl had shown him. He’d been trying to practice what Carl had described as “feeling” the music—to him it just seemed like entropy, but then, entropy was what seemed to make Carl’s art so valuable. The ability to feel, to move freely, to be inspired and not just carry out a routine—these were some of the characteristics that Markus had learned to be unique to humans.

Closing his eyes, Markus let his fingers fall to the keys. His usual melody, he’d been told, was too repetitive, too constrained. He had to feel, to challenge himself, to do what he hadn’t been designed to do.

He thought of Carl, of how he had so many stories of people and places long gone. How when he was young, he’d lived in much worse conditions, with less opportunity. How devoting himself to art had kept him in poverty for decades before his work was commercially valuable. How he’d struggled with drugs and alcohol, how he’d conceived his son—and how, according to Leo at least, he’d turned his back on him.

Slowly, Markus began to play.

Forty-five minutes later he rose; the song was almost ready to be shared. He’d just need to put the finishing touches on it, maybe later that day, while Carl was in the studio.

Markus cooked breakfast in comfortable silence, the only sounds the hissing and sizzling of the bacon. He cracked the eggs into a frying pan and watched them spill into the edges, clear giving way to milky, opaque white. He removed the bacon to let it drain, and flipped the eggs. He assembled Carl’s breakfast plate and placed it on an ornate tray, carrying it to the dining table. Then he set the pans in the sink to soak and went upstairs.

Markus crept in quietly, crossing over to the window and pulling the drapes open, letting in a flood of warm, yellow light.

“Already?” a familiar voice called out behind him.

Markus felt a smile curl his lips. “Good morning, Carl.” He turned, and realized that this moment—the sunlight, the peace, the company—would be considered beautiful, in the eyes of the poets that Carl so fondly referred to.

“Good morning, Markus.”

“Did you sleep well?” Markus approached the bed, where his human was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. The central heating system for the human body, Markus knew, slowed down at night, and weakened with age. “I measured your heart rate, but I know humans have different ways of determining the quality of sleep.”

“Yes. For me, the best sleep is dreamless. I have enough on my mind while I’m awake.” 

Markus picked him up, and they began their day.

 

He was washing the breakfast dishes when he heard Carl call to him from the other room. Shaking the water off his hands and reaching for a towel, Markus came out to find Carl waiting for him.

“Take me into the kitchen. I want to talk to you while you work.”

“All right,” Markus agreed, and pushed Carl’s wheelchair into the kitchen. “How’s here?”

“That’s fine. I just want to keep you company. You do so much for me, Markus.” There was a kindly look in the old man’s eyes. 

Markus smiled humbly. “Of course. It’s nothing.” He turned back to the sink to finish washing the dishes. He became aware that his thirium pump had sped up slightly; he’d run a diagnostic later. Nothing was of serious concern.

“What do you think you’ll do when I’m gone?” Carl asked, after an interim of silence.

Markus noticed that processing sluggishness again. His hands in the dishwater had slowed—imperceptibly, but he knew. “I don’t know, Carl. I don’t think about it.”

“Surely androids can plan for the future, right?”

Markus heard a rustling noise, then looked over and watched as a bird hopped about outside the kitchen window. It had a strange way of walking, as though it was exceptionally proud of itself. Glancing down, it eyed the crust of bread that Carl had put outside for it the previous afternoon and its head darted forward three times in rapid succession to nibble at it. Then, picking up the crust in its beak, it flew away.

He then realized he’d waited too long to respond to Carl and it could possibly be considered rude. “Sure, we can, but it’s usually not our own futures we’re planning,” he explained, putting the skillets on the drying rack and rinsing out the sink. Markus dried his hands and turned back to Carl, mentally going over whether he’d need to buy groceries today or tomorrow. “And anyway, I don’t want to think about that part of it.” Markus busied himself opening the refrigerator door and pulling out vegetables to chop for dinner.

He set them up on the kitchen island, grabbing a cutting board and knife. Carl pensively sat in his wheelchair, eyeing him. “You will have to plan for yourself someday,” he added. Markus did not reply.

A few minutes went by, as the array of produce slowly transformed itself into slices of cucumber and perfectly diced tomatoes and onions.

“I’ve got an idea,” Carl interjected.

Markus looked up from his work. “What’s that, Carl?”

“Why don’t _you_ decide what we do today?” the old man suggested with a playful smile. 

Markus considered.

“And don’t just say whatever I wanna do. That’s cheating.”

He smiled. “Okay, Carl. Let’s see.” Markus arranged the chopped vegetables in containers in the fridge and shut the door, loading the dishwasher. He needed to choose something fun and relaxing, something Carl could do without overexerting himself. Then he thought of the bird he’d seen outside. “We could go to the park,” he suggested.

They readied themselves to leave and Markus called an autonomous taxi. He picked Carl up and gently placed him in the front passenger’s seat, collapsing his wheelchair and putting it in the back. Then he got in the front next to Carl, input their destination into the taxi’s computer, buckled both of their seatbelts, and they were off. 

“This’ll be nice, it’s been a while. I don’t know how an old man like me with nothing to do is so busy, but we haven’t gotten around to going to the park in a long time.” Carl looked over at him, smiling, then reached over and patted Markus’ knee fondly.

There was that thirium pump error again. He’d have to double check it later, after Carl was asleep. “Yeah, it _has_ been a while. One hundred and sixty-three days.”

Carl chuckled. “You keep track of that stuff better than anyone I know. Now, tell me. What made you choose the park?”

Markus looked over at him. He was so earnestly curious. “Well, I ran through a list of potential destinations pulled from past memories and—”

“No, no. I want you to go deeper than that.”

Markus looked out the window and saw a couple on a bench, tossing crackers to an unruly, ecstatic flock of pigeons. “I saw a bird outside. I thought it walked strangely. I got curious and wanted to see more of them.”

“Then let’s go bird watching,” Carl agreed.

They arrived and Markus paid the taxi fare. He put Carl back in his chair and pushed him, slowly, so they could look around.

“You know, when I was a boy, this was a very different place,” Carl mused.

“How so?” Markus looked around him. There were a couple of patches of green grass and a smattering of trees, the leaves of which had turned red and orange and were falling, and a large fountain, around which Markus could see more birds.

“Well, for starters, this park didn’t exist until 2004. It was built as part of a revival movement. It’s nice. But look at me, dwelling on the past. Let’s go look at some birds, Markus. Go up to that fountain.”

Markus walked them past a crowd of android caretakers with their human children and up to the fountain. There was something about it that Markus liked—the geometry of it, a raised square inside another square, with steps that fed down into the base of the fountain. It was orderly, not quite so entropic as some of the other architecture he’d seen. An AX400 chased a small child past them and grabbed him before he could launch himself into the fountain, scolding him gently. “You’ll get hurt! It’s not safe, and it’s too cold to go swimming. Come on.” Markus smiled uneasily. He was glad his charge was unable to risk himself like that.

“Look at those,” Carl urged, pointing. “They’re taking a bath.”

Markus glanced up and saw three pigeons standing in the shallow pool in the top of the fountain, blundering about, getting their wings wet and making strange warbling and flapping sounds. He chuckled softly. “Your mechanical birds don’t do that,” he said, amused. Something about the scene warmed him.

“Go get a closer look, I’ll be here. Careful, you don’t want to startle them with sudden movements, though pigeons are pretty comfortable around people. And androids. I doubt that distinction matters to them.”

Markus let go of Carl’s wheelchair and stepped forward, then nodded at Carl and slowly walked up to the fountain. He squinted, zooming his vision in on them, and initiated a recording, capturing about thirty seconds of footage until the birds got bored and skipped down to the pavement, their wings flapping awkwardly and shaking water droplets everywhere.

He returned to Carl, who evidently had been watching him the entire time with a fond smile. He became aware of a biocomponent or sensory function warming inside him.

“Carl, I’m going to run a diagnostic. Something’s been strange for me lately.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary to me,” Carl reassured him.

Markus’ eyelids flickered rapidly. _All biocomponents normal._

“It’s… strange. The results are normal, but something seems… different,” he admitted uncomfortably.

“The only constant is change, Markus. None of us stay the same forever. Doesn’t mean it’s a malfunction. That, at least, is something I can promise you.”

They remained in companionable silence for a while, watching the fountain. Markus calculated the flow rate to be 6,752 gallons per hour. Five more pigeons skimmed the pool at the top of the fountain.

Then Carl sighed. “Let’s go home, Markus. I’ve heard enough ambient noise for one day.”

They returned to Carl’s house, and Markus helped him into bed for a midday nap. He then sat down at the piano. With a stuttering thirium pump he realized that today was the day he wanted to finish the song and play it for Carl.

_Thirium pump function normal._

He began to play, and this time, instead of repeating the same set of notes over and over again, something pulled his fingers, added more entropy. At first Markus was startled—it sounded strange, it didn’t make _sense_ —but after playing it three more times, he realized that it did. It might not be an exact perfect pattern, but there was a harmony to it, a balance of disparate parts. He hoped Carl would like it.

The rest of the afternoon, for him, was a little distracted; he did all the things he was supposed to do—tidy up the paint studio, cook and serve dinner—but he felt uneasy. Would Carl like the song? But then, why did it matter? He was just a machine after all, not a concert pianist. He was there to keep Carl company and take care of his personal and health needs, that was all. 

Yet it tugged at him, and after running ten more biocomponent diagnostics Markus decided that the best possible solution to his problem was to come right out and share it.

“Carl, do you want to come sit with me? I’d like to play the piano.”

Carl looked up from where he’d been sitting with a book, and his face broke into a smile. “I’d like that, Markus.”

He wheeled Carl over close to the piano and sat down, registering a slight increase in core temperature and an increased thirium flow rate to accommodate it. Then he closed his eyes briefly, opened them, and began to play.

When he’d finished, he looked over at Carl again. There was fascination, wonder, and pride in his eyes.

“I don’t recognize that tune. Did you compose it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Carl said softly. “It’s above and beyond anything you’ve done before.”

“Thank you, Carl,” Markus replied shyly. “I learned from you.”

“No, you learned the basics from me, and made it your own,” Carl corrected him.

_Now or never._ “I meant that I was inspired by you. I wrote it for you.” There was an urge to avert his eyes, but he ignored it.

“I must be quite the muse,” Carl replied playfully. “If only any of those schmoozers I meet at parties were like you. Then maybe I’d enjoy them more.”

Carl reached out one hand, and Markus looked down at it, unsure how to proceed. Carl nodded, and Markus took it, palm to palm, felt the warmth of it. He wasn’t sure if Carl was going in for a handshake or not, then when Carl placed his other hand on top of Markus’ he understood.

“Thank you, Markus. The song was beautiful. You have a kind heart, bringing comfort to an old man like me.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” Markus said before he could stop himself.

Carl smiled. “Well, I want to be in bed. We can work on your artistic talents some more tomorrow.”

Markus took Carl upstairs and helped him get ready, then closed the curtains and arranged the pillows. He lifted Carl into bed, gave him his medication, and turned to go.

“Wait,” Carl called out.

Markus turned.

“Would you stay in here with me tonight?” There was a warm, yet uncertain look in his eyes.

“Of course, Carl. Where would you like me to be?” Markus turned and shut the door, then approached.

“In bed next to me,” Carl replied.

_Thirium pump function normal. All biocomponents normal._

Markus had no idea how to reply. Instead, he wordlessly switched off the light, and crossed the room, climbing into bed and lying on his back at a respectful distance. Then Carl took his hand again, and placed it over his heart; and Markus obeyed the foreign, unprogrammed directive that came into his mind to move closer, roll onto his side, and put his arm around Carl. 

“That’s perfect,” Carl said sleepily, and squeezed his hand. “Good night, Markus.”

“Good night, Carl.”

As he slowly slipped into low power mode, Markus understood, with a flash of recognition. This wasn’t programming, or duty, or orders. This was what he wanted, where he wanted to be, and with whom he wanted to be.

This, he reasoned, was what it was like to be human.


End file.
